Something massively imperfect, painfully sappy, and woefully inadequate.
Because I feel it.
sore in my chest
puffy in my eyes
crusted shut when I woke this morning
breathless and sweaty
from dreaming of him again.
Exhausted from the booby trap of popular music,
full of it’s
missing you’s
and
it’ll never be how it was’s
Stumbling around looking for something, some thing.
To do what? To help? To fix?
Fix what, death? That’s not real.
To help what, missing?
Missing you is what I get to do. My birthright. The program running in the background for the next 70 years, should I be so lucky.
If I’ve learned anything from the last 10 years it’s that not every day feels like this.
Like
lack,
bereft,
like my face is the gravel beneath my own feet.
like my body is rearranged with the heart where my ankles have always been and my hands live in my mouth now. Re-learning how to walk, read a map, order tea, make sense of my surroundings.
And feeling embarrassed and alone. At constant risk of melting into tears. A fully grown liability.
And trying to hold on to the one thing that brings my body back to earth.
Gratitude.
I’m grateful you were here.
I’m grateful you made me.
I’m grateful you listened and cared and read and wrote and left me all the gifts I have in this life.
Breath in, breath out.
Grateful.
I’m grateful you were here.
I’m grateful you made me.
I’m grateful you stayed as long as you could.
Breath in, breath out.
Grateful.
I’m grateful you were here.
I’m grateful you made me.
Grateful.
Happy 10-years, Dad. I hope you’re outrageously comfortable, riding bikes, doing LSD at concerts, taking long dumps, and reading endless biographies.
I love you and I miss you. See you not-so-soon.
Female Gazing 